


The Boys of Winter

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Baseball, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"It's pointless, really," he tells the clicking ceiling fan. "My knee's going to give out any day. You weigh ninety pounds. We're</i> English."</p><p><i>"I'm Welsh," Merlin points out.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boys of Winter

The Dominican Republic is a revelation to Merlin, not because of the beaches or the food or the occasional political instability next door, but because they can _play baseball in December._ He's had less pleasant first-pitch weather in _July._

"Where the hell have you been playing?" Arthur asks him when he mentions this. (He mentions it because Arthur is the only other British player he's ever met _anywhere,_ and there is a peculiar urge to commiserate with somebody who will understand when his friends from home forget the difference between a walk and a wicket.)

"Netherlands, mostly," Merlin says. "Rotterdam."

Arthur snorts and starts eating another egg sandwich. "I mostly play in Italy myself. My father has business connections with the team's owner, so I get to start fairly regularly."

They are assigned to play on some negative-A team, where the only other native English speakers are high school drop-outs and mid-forties has-beens from America. Merlin has picked up enough Dutch to get along with three pitchers from Aruba, but while Arthur insists that Spanish is "just like Italian only different" he mostly spends his time bothering Merlin. This mainly takes the form of lecturing him about their respective training regimens. "I mean, your biceps," Arthur says, while eating another egg sandwich. "I have bats that are bigger around than that. Have you ever hit the ball out of the infield?"

"Not all of us can look like a public health warning about steroids," Merlin says testily, and that always makes Arthur bitchy and nervous and prone to telling everyone he knows, loudly, that his physique is entirely the product of a strict diet-and-exercise regimen. Which apparently involves bottomless amounts of egg sandwiches.

Somehow, their coach--another one of those American has-beens--thinks it would be brilliant to start Merlin at second. Arthur, of course, does not agree.

"I know how a double play works, thank you," Merlin says when Arthur keeps lobbing balls at his head--not even proper throws, crazy side-arm things, _curveballs,_ things that bounce in the dirt and dare him to square up at considerable risk to his privates.

"You're too tall to play second," Arthur calls, and easily stabs at Merlin's return throw. "And you're too skinny for the outfield. Really, what are you good for?"

(In the first game of the winter season, Merlin bunts his way on base and drives in a run. Arthur is charged with an error and strikes out twice. "Just so you know," Arthur says viciously as he ices his knee, "that was _luck."_)

Merlin knows how to turn a double play. (Julio, the shortstop, also knows, and mutters to himself in Spanish a lot during their warm-ups.) So why Arthur insists on lecturing him about his grip is beyond him, and a little insulting, until of course Merlin actually attempts a double play and ends up throwing the ball into the stands. Nobody's hurt, but it's a two-run error and the margin of victory. Arthur has an RBI that game, but shockingly, he doesn't rub Merlin's nose in it afterward, not even when the Arubans are teasing him about it.

Right around Christmas (Arthur bragging about how his father offered to fly him home, Merlin making up a box of tropical fruit for his mum) it happens like this: the other pitcher is at bat, a pudgy Korean fellow who, they were all informed, hasn't made contact since high school, but there's a runner on third and the sacrifice is tipping itself from the next time zone. Of course the infield is in, way in, as in Merlin is nearly on the mound, and of course that's when the Korean hits his first line drive, square off the sweet spot and into Merlin's face.

"People have died from that, you know," Arthur tells him grimly when he regains consciousness in the hospital. "A first base coach at a game in Iowa _died."_

"So I'm lucky," Merlin mutters.

Arthur scowls at him, and takes out an egg sandwich wrapped in plastic. "You're an _idiot."_

The concussion symptoms go away faster than the black eyes or the broken nose, but coach tells Merlin to stay home and take it easy. On their off day, Arthur gives up on his regimen just for a little while to take Merlin to a game. "You want to watch baseball on your day off from baseball?" Merlin asks.

Arthur brandishes the tickets at him. "Dominican Winter League. Real, proper players. Albert Pujols might even _breathe_ on us."

So Merlin puts on wrap-around sunglasses that hide the worst of the bruising, and they go watch a game. They're sitting in pricey seats with a bunch of Americans who came down just to watch their favorite players keep in shape, and Arthur, in a shocking reversal, drinks a beer. "I thought carbohydrates were the enemy," Merlin asks.

"I never said that," Arthur declares airly.

"You hung it on a banner in your locker."

"Lies."

It is a really fantastic game, the kind where the defense looks effortless and the pitching is laser-sharp and then one beautiful home run makes both look meaningless. "Now that is a double play," Arthur says, but only once, and when they amble out of the stadium it's dark and humid and Arthur has had _more than one beer_ and Merlin has had painkillers, which are better. It's something of a miracle that they even get home, and when they do Arthur lays on the floor and gets maudlin.

"It's pointless, really," he tells the clicking ceiling fan. "My knee's going to give out any day. You weigh ninety pounds. We're _English."_

"I'm Welsh," Merlin points out.

"I'm going to become one of them," Arthur carries on. "One of the sad old fucks who coaches negative-A winter teams in developing countries because he can't let go of the game. I'm going to get fat. I'm going to say inane things about pitch placement to journalists."

"You could start up a British league," Merlin suggests. "I mean, your dad owns half the country, right?"

Arthur snorts. "Who would they play? We'd be lucky to find a starting nine."

"Work it out with the Dutch," Merlin suggests. "Franchise out of their league to start with to build up the interest, then expand to a weekend format. May to August, maybe, so you don't have to deal with the weather so much."

Arthur is looking at him funny now. "You really have a devious mind between those ears, don't you?"

Merlin shrugs. "I'm actually trying to imagine what would happen if we put in a diamond at Lord's."

"Rioting in the streets. We'd be shot in our sleep. By the Queen."

"Yeah, and the outfield would be too deep."

They laugh, and Merlin realizes he hasn't seen Arthur laugh this winter--snicker, yeah, sneer, sure, and of course he's always dead serious to the point of histrionics about his regimen or his OBP or double plays, but there's no joy in any of that. He just made Arthur laugh. That makes him laugh harder.

"Merlin, what the hell's wrong with you?" Arthur asks. "Do I need to call a trainer or something?" But he's still smiling, and it finally occurs to Merlin that there's a reason besides total bases to want to look like a steroid advert, and somehow he's kissing Arthur on the lips.

Arthur makes a squeaky sort of noise and moves his head too fast, bumping into Merlin's nose, which still hurts like a son of a bitch. "Sorry," he says, "sorry, I just...did you just kiss me?"

"No, I was collecting a test sample, you tit," Merlin grumbles.

"Well, give me some warning next time, I'll be more careful," Arthur grumbled.

Merlin raises an eyebrow at him. "Next time?"

"If," Arthur stammers, and it's hard to tell whether he's blushing in the dark. "If you want a next time."

Merlin thinks about it. "You gonna criticize my grip?"

"Only if you forget to choke up," Arthur says, and when they finish laughing at that one, they give it a try.

In the first game after the holiday they turn two double plays, 6-4-3 beauties, laser-sharp. They lose the game, but Merlin finds he doesn't mind at all.


End file.
